*NO ARCHIVE*   
      
   TITLE: The Pattern   
   RATING: R for strong language and adult themes   
   ARCHIVE: Ephemeral, Gossamer - yes. Others please ask.   
   AUTHOR: Joann Humby - jhumby@lineone.net   
      
   LEGALLY:   
   We all know the score. The characters are not mine, never will be.   
   They're owned by some combination of Fox, 1013 and CC.   
      
   =========   
      
      
   If the knowledge was a Tug-of-War then she was the rope.   
      
   The same fears and hesitations that had kept them apart for years   
   were rising inside her again. Mulder and Fowley. Mulder and Props.   
   Mulder and suicide.   
      
   A partner. A friend. A lover? The dilemma clear. Easy to be one,   
   hard to be all three.   
      
   Now Skinner had ordered her into another role. Guard? Doctor? Spy?   
   Whatever she chose to call it, it came out the same. Mulder was   
   apparently at psychological risk and Scully was supposed to be his   
   protector.   
      
   She'd called him when she got home. A pre-emptive strike. Fobbed   
   him off with words like laundry and bath and tired. He'd teased,   
   asked if she needed help with all those bubbles.   
      
   Guard, doctor, spy? How many fantasies did those characters appear   
   in? Yet she couldn't imagine a bigger turn-off. She struggled to   
   keep it light, wriggled out of the conversation by claiming that   
   someone had just arrived at her door.   
      
   She needed time to think.   
      
   Suicidal? Why wasn't she surprised?   
      
   Because she'd seen him there. Cutting things too fine. Taking too   
   many risks. Getting holes drilled in his head. Close to breaking   
   point when her cancer had looked too hard to beat.   
      
   Tomorrow? Tomorrow his partner would see him in the office and, if   
   necessary, Dr. Scully would be waiting in the wings.   
      
   Scully's frustration with her partner was matched only by her   
   frustration with herself. She couldn't be jealous of a dead woman.   
   She couldn't be angry with Mulder for something that had happened   
   before they'd even met.   
      
   Except.   
      
   Except Mulder hadn't told her about Fowley - the then of her and   
   the now of her - and he hadn't told her about being placed on   
   suicide watch the first time he chased Props. Past or not, these   
   were the things that had made and shaped him and she was entitled   
   to know. Wasn't she?   
      
   Perhaps not the gory details of his - her thoughts skipped over all   
   the various possibilities before settling on the word -   
   relationship.   
      
   No. Damn it, she wanted the details too. How long had it taken her   
   to become his lover? How long did they stay together? Was she good   
   to him? Was he good to her? Did he look at her as if she was the   
   center of the universe? Did she worry about it ending in anguished   
   words and painful looks before it had even begun?   
      
   Why did she leave?   
      
   And why had Mulder trusted her when she came back?   
      
   She'd called him Fox. Stupid little trivial meaningless detail.   
   Fluttering around her head just outside swatting distance, just   
   inside her line of sight. Whispering in her ear when she least   
   expected it. She swiped away an angry tear from the corner of her   
   eye.   
      
   Enough.   
      
   That was all lover crap. Tomorrow she would be his partner.   
      
   ---------   
      
   Next Morning - X-Files Office   
      
   When Scully arrived at work, Mulder was already in a meeting with   
   Skinner. By the time he returned, Scully had her speech all lined   
   up.   
      
   He preempted her words with a single look. "You need to see this,"   
   he said, pushing a manila file into her hand and practically   
   bolting from the office as soon as she took it.   
      
   Her body, not so convinced by the word partner as her brain had   
   been, tried to follow him. She didn't allow it, just pressed her   
   hands against the edge of the desk and forced herself to sit   
   quietly in the chair. He'd given her this. It was her duty to   
   accept the challenge.   
      
   The folder was thin, a note on its cover announced it as a sealed   
   file for authorized eyes only and threatened dire consequences to   
   anyone who might copy its contents or divulge them in any way.   
      
   Hospital records, names, dates, times and locations. A few brief   
   notes on follow-up interviews conducted by a psychiatrist working   
   for the Bureau.   
      
   On the admission paper - Bill Patterson's name, the words "Actively   
   suicidal", and the serial number of Mulder's freshly confiscated   
   gun.   
      
   On the discharge paper - a reference to Dr. Diana Fowley, who'd   
   spoken for him at the competency hearing.   
      
   ----------   
      
   To describe Mulder as furious was to miss the point. He was way   
   past furious and coming out the other side into ice-cold   
   indifferent.   
      
   He'd been angry when he'd seen Skinner of course, though at least   
   the AD had done him the courtesy of openly admitting what he'd said   
   to Scully the day before. Scully, on the other hand, hadn't told   
   him what was bugging her when they'd spoken later that night. Would   
   she have ever decided to talk to him about it or was it just going   
   to be something else to add to the scorecard?   
      
   Would he have ever told her about it of his own free will? Not if   
   he could have helped it. Yet why not? She knew him better than   
   anyone ever had. Wasn't she entitled to know this?   
      
   He considered it. Opted for a no. However, it was a moot point now.   
   She knew the raw facts. If she thought it was relevant to the case,   
   then she could ask him for more details.   
      
   And if she thought it was relevant to them, then she was just plain   
   wrong.   
      
   A few laps of the track and his mood was starting to soften. She'd   
   have read the file by now. They would talk about it like two   
   adults. A nagging little voice whispered the name Diana Fowley in   
   his ear and he told it to shut the fuck up.   
      
   Another nagging voice appeared at his side, this one more difficult   
   to ignore. Assistant Director Walter Skinner. Mulder turned his   
   head to acknowledge the intruder. "Fancy meeting you here, sir."   
      
   "I like to take a lunchtime run when I can."   
      
   Mulder glanced down at his watch. He'd been out here for nearly two   
   hours. He'd pay for this tomorrow. They jogged on together, Mulder   
   resisting the urge to sprint away. He was OK now, besides which his   
   body probably didn't have a sprint left in it, which would have   
   just pissed him off even more. "You needn't have come," Mulder   
   finally said.   
      
   "I came to apologize."   
      
   "She needed to know."   
      
   "Which was why I told her."   
      
   They ran on in silence. Just a couple of laps. Just enough that   
   they could wind down together and walk away.   
      
   Fifteen minutes later, showered and back into suits and ties they   
   were sitting in the cafeteria undoing whatever benefit they might   
   have received from the exercise. Or at least Mulder was. "Salad   
   instead of fries?" Mulder shook his head, looking at his boss's   
   plate as if it was sacrilege to put any kind of vegetation so close   
   to a burger.   
      
   "You've got salad."   
      
   "And fries," Mulder insisted. He waved at the tomatoes. "Just   
   window-dressing. Force of habit," he said, thinking of Scully's   
   clucks of disapproval at his eating patterns. He glanced around the   
   room again and the other agents who'd been watching the Spooky and   
   Skinner Show quickly ducked their heads and looked away. "Jesus,"   
   he mumbled. And this was without the contents of that file being   
   made public.   
      
      
   [continued in next message]   
      
   --- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05   
    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)